


Bad Day

by kenopsiaa



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 09:42:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8051482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenopsiaa/pseuds/kenopsiaa
Summary: AU to 6.01, 'Borrowed Time.' Peter follows Neal to a bar, and they don't talk about it.





	Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> Neal has a bad day, and Peter is there for him.

The poor kid couldn't catch a break.

After everything with James, and then the betrayal of Rebecca and Hagen, and then Rebecca's return for the diamond, and _then_ being kidnapped by Boothe, Neal had taken one hell of an emotional beating these past few weeks - and this afternoon was no exception. 

Not even an hour had passed in between the time of Neal's return from the Pink Panther audition and Rebecca slowly bleeding to death on the sidewalk outside of the building. Peter couldn't think of a scripted movie with this much chaos and sheer bad luck thrown at the protagonist. 

Since he couldn't be entirely sure that Neal's head hadn't exploded from it all, Peter decided it best to give him some time to process everything before offering any companionship or support on his behalf. Elizabeth had agreed when he'd shared with her his thoughts; and by the time the sun had set and Peter was heading out the door, she'd already prepared about a boatload of pistachio ice cream to deliver to June's in portable coolers. 

He'd checked Neal's anklet before he left, which revealed his tiny location dot beeping at a bar a few blocks from June's. It wasn't like he wished to intrude on Neal's unguarded emotions - grief, anger, sorrow, all of the above - whatever they may be. He just wanted to be there for a friend who needed it. 

The bar was pretty quiet; music played on low volume from speakers in the ceiling, and few customers occupied the barstools and surrounding tables in the place. Peter spotted him instantly; his back was to him, but he'd recognize that figure anywhere. 

He slid into the vacant seat to his right. "Neal," he greeted, shrugging off his coat that was much too warm in this considerably cozy space. 

At his presence, Neal turned. A soft, half-smile ghosted his lips. "Hey." His grip was loose around a near-empty glass of what appeared to be bourbon. 

Peter was suddenly hesitant at this strange and completely unfamiliar version of Neal Caffrey. "I hope it's okay that I'm here..."

Neal waved him off. "Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

When a bartender appeared, Peter asked for a beer; but other than that, he kept quiet. He wasn't sure why, but he felt like anything he said right now would just seem like a waste of breath. He wanted to tell Neal that he would get through this in time, that none of it would seem so bad one day. But most of all, he just wanted to say, _Don't let this make you hard, Neal. You're too good, too kind, and you didn't deserve any of it. But don't you dare let it turn that good heart of yours to stone. You have people in this world who care about you. Don't lose faith in that._

But he didn't tell him any of that. Instead he kept his mouth shut and tried to thing of something, anything, that wouldn't end up sounding completely useless. He also didn't want to be stupid and say the wrong thing, because despite his ability to convince people otherwise, Neal was sensitive, and hurting his feelings when he was already down was equivalent to kicking a wounded puppy. "You been here long?" He tried, in attempt to make some kind of conversation.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Haven't been watching the time too closely." Oddly, he didn't seem to care much that Peter had obviously checked his anklet and followed him here. He didn't seem to care much about anything, actually, and _that_ was extremely disconcerting.

A while passed before Peter couldn't help himself anymore and finally dared to ask. "How are you, uh...holding up?" Neal was smart enough to know that was Peter's reason for coming here. In light of recent events, it wasn't too hard to figure out.

As Neal absorbed the question, Peter studied his behavior; eyes casting down, shoulders a bit more tense...torso shifted fractionally away from him. Closed off. _Don't do that,_ Peter silently willed. _Don't be like that with me, Neal. I'm here. Talk to me, please._ "M'fine," he assured, examining too closely the way the amber color of his drink glistened under the yellow lights. 

"Because, um - I'm here, if you wanna talk about it." Because Neal was definitely _not_ fine, not hours after the girl who'd loved him and betrayed him had been shot dead on her way back to prison. Not fine at all, because he'd loved her, too.

And Neal finally looked him in the eyes then - crystal blue, distant, and sad - and he didn't smile. Instead he stared at Peter intently, like he was desperate for him to understand something that he couldn't explain. But then he looked away, his voice lowering to a soft mutter. "I don't want to talk about it."

So they didn't. They talked about other things instead, like baseball and Degas and everything in between, until Peter was probably half as drunk as Neal was and they were the only two people left at the bar. Neither of them mentioned Rebecca, and Peter decided that that was for the best. She broke Neal's heart; it was stupid of of Peter to assume he'd want to talk about it. 

Once they'd paid for their respective drinks, Peter said, "C'mon - I'll walk you home."

When Neal stood from the barstool, he wobbled on his feet. Peter's eyebrows rose as he watched him regain his balance; he hadn't realized just how many rounds Neal had done, considering how well he concealed his inebriation. 

Small snowflakes fell from the midnight sky as they set off along the sidewalk. Neal's hands were shoved into the pockets of his thick wool coat, but Peter kept one arm at his side in case Neal stumbled again. Sure, he wouldn't pass the straight-line test if he'd been driving and gotten pulled over; but even with the occasional teeter into Peter's side, he was doing pretty well for someone incredibly drunk. 

Besides the gentle  _whoosh_ of cars passing by on the damp road, the walk was otherwise quiet - until Neal, strangely, spoke up. "S'cold."

Peter bit back a laugh and instead managed a small grin. "Yeah, buddy. It's cold."

"Where's 'lizabeth?"

"She's home. Made you lots of pistachio ice cream - I'm sure she'll bring it by tomorrow."

"Mm."

Peter didn't like this. Neal was quiet, too quiet for someone who should be screaming out in anger and rage and sadness at everything he'd been put through. Peter wanted so badly to push him to talk about this, to convince him that he shouldn't keep his feelings locked away like he was doing. But he also knew that the harder he pushed Neal, the thicker the wall he'd put up between them, and that would just make everything worse. He had to accept the fact that Neal would come to him when he was ready.

They rounded a corner, and June's house came into view at the end of the street. "You're more than welcome to come hang out at our place, if you want," Peter offered; honestly, he just wanted Neal somewhere safe, where he could keep an eye on him. 

"No thanks," he declined with a small, polite smile. "Just wanna go home."

Another quiet moment passed before Peter spoke again. "You don't have to come to work tomorrow - if you'd rather focus on the Panthers, that's fine."

"I'll be there," he replied. "I just wanna focus on work." Peter frowned. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he really needed some time to slow down and take everything in, one little piece at a time. He wouldn't last much longer, going at the pace he was at. 

Once in front of the mansion, both of them stopped. Neal was looking at the ground with his hands in his pockets, like he wanted to say something to Peter but couldn't find the words. "Thanks, for uh - walking with me," he seemed to decide, his voice breathy and soft. 

"No problem," Peter assured. "Wanted to make sure you got home safe." And then, before he could stop himself, he blurted out, "I'm sorry about Rebecca."

Neal's bleary, red-rimmed eyes suddenly glistened beneath the streetlight; and whether it was a result of the mention of her, the biting wind or the alcohol, Peter couldn't be sure. Neal forced a smile anyway. "Not your fault."

Yet another silence befell them; there'd been a lot of those tonight, it felt like. Peter studied Neal - how his shoulders were slightly slumped, and how he tried to avoid Peter's gaze every chance he got, and how he just wasn't _Neal_. He bit the inside of his cheek. "Can I tell you something?"

Those distant eyes widened, in a little too much curiosity - even for him. "Yeah."

And then, without thinking too much about it, Peter closed the gap between them and wrapped his arms tightly around Neal's shoulders. He tensed at Peter's touch, but a few moments later a shaky sigh was audible and Neal's own arms snaked behind his back. Peter pressed his hand against the back of his neck, pulling him closer; somewhere near his ear, he whispered, "You won't feel like this forever. It's gonna get easier, I promise. You're gonna be okay."

A soft murmur, "I know."

After a few pats to Neal's back, he pulled away, digging his hands into his pockets. "Neal, listen - if you need anything, if you want to talk, or if you're having a bad day - just let me know, alright? You know I'm here for you, always."

The corners of his mouth quirked up slightly. "Thanks, Peter."

And then he was ascending the steps to June's front door, leaving Peter to make sure he got safely inside before setting off on his own, toward home. 

***

Neal showed up to work the next morning as if nothing had ever happened. He was helping Peter close cases; he was focused on meetings and tasks for the Panthers. He was smiling, making jokes, laughing - happy. When Peter asked about it, he just grinned and said, "Peter, I'm fine." But even he could tell that Neal was overcompensating on the charm, just a little bit. And there was nothing wrong about that, of course; he just wondered how long it would be before things went a little sideways in Neal's world. 

A week. 

The smiles and assurances went on for a week, until one morning when Neal didn't come in to the office. Just as Peter picked up his cell from his desk, it started to ring in his hand. "Neal, hey - I was just about to call. Where are you?"

Silence. Then, a shaky exhale. "I'm having a bad day," Neal murmured, his voice breaking slightly. 

At the sound of it, Peter's heart ached. Diana, who stood waiting behind the glass of his office, was staring in confusion down at Neal's empty desk. Peter met her eyes, and thankfully she understood; she nodded once and proceeded into the bullpen to find Jones. Then he stood, slid his arms into his jacket, and headed out of his office. They would have to work on their own today. He addressed Neal, who was still on the line. "Hang in there, buddy - I'm on my way."

 


End file.
